Just a Man
by raileht
Summary: Because, after all, he's really just a man. (D/K Alienation of Affection)


**Just a Man**  
by: raileht  
Summary: He's really just a man.**  
**Disclaimer: The ones you don't know are mine, the ones you do aren't.  
Rating: T, to be safe

Spoilers/Timeline: Alienation of Affection (3x12)  
Note: _written and posted at the Christine Baranski Community January 12, 2012_

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There's one fact that he knows about the woman he's living with.

She is not messy.

That's an obvious fact and he knows it. No, she doesn't have OCD in terms of she will throw a fit if you put the stapler four inches from where you picked it up previously. Not necessarily. She's just the kind of woman who likes things where they are supposed to be and not having to tip toe around her bedroom floor amongst scattered clothes, shoes and god knew what else.

And he's thankful.

Because he's a neat guy and yes, he actually knows how to clean, pick up after himself and simply _not_ leave the toilet seat up—although the last one really has nothing to do with being neat and really is a self-preservation thing, considering he's grown up and dated women who are severely _unappreciative_ of toilet seats being left up. Not that he can blame them and yes, it was a learning curve (an unnamed female threw a _running_ hairdryer at him just for that and that was the last time he ever left the seat up _and_ stayed in the same vicinity as her) but he got there anyway. That was what was important, of course.

So when he comes home after being away for the last two weeks and finds nothing but a coat on the foyer to welcome him back, he's curious but he brushes it aside. Things happen and there is a first time for everything, even if it is one of her favorites—a tan faux-fur trimmed collar winter coat. (Yes, it's self-preservation that has him being observant of his mate's closet as well but it's a lot harder than he imagined, especially with his current lover who happens to _love_ clothes)

Because he knows just how her clothes are normally treated, he laid the coat on the nearest chair. It will need to be placed in the hamper to be washed, but he's intent on finding its owner first before anything else. The house is quiet, but he's not surprised either. It's a good neighborhood and she isn't the type to live loud like she's running a crack house though sometimes yes, she would cave to playing music throughout the abode. Her tastes usually vary from classical music, old favorites, some Broadway favorites that's really more of a guilty pleasure than a known fact and some choice songs he had been, at first, surprised to find out she actually listened to. (sappy love songs, 60s-90s pop/iconic fame type—songs you would not equal to her and this includes _Bon Jovi_ and _The Rolling Stones_ but these fall under "she will kill you if you tell and she will know if you did" that very, very few people know about)

So the search begins and he's the curious, unsuspecting lover coming back from a business trip. If this was a horror movie, either he's about to end up dead _or_ end up seeing someone dead. But it's not and the next thing he finds doesn't appear until he's in the master bedroom.

Clothes, shoes and her bag were the only indication that she'd returned home. Those were things he rightfully assumed she had worn or taken with her to work and normally, to see those at the end of the day would be normal.

The not normal part was finding them strewn around the room. The shoes are on their sides, a pair of black high heels. They look normal, common even, but he knew they were new and _loved_. She had schooled him on that, _"Like the proverbial little black dress, women also happen to need a pair of gorgeous black high heels…they're never plain, they go with everything and never steal the spotlight from the wearer. They are a classic."_ She'd only gotten those a month prior and debated whether to get them or a pair of gray ones with triple straps she'd seen as well.

After much thought and deliberation (women and shoes, he had decided long ago to stop bothering to understand this particular combination) she had gone with the 'classic black high heels', declaring the ones she had were old already and needed to be replaced. They left it at that until two weeks ago when _he _caved and bought the gray ones before he had to leave her again.

He's never been the kind of guy to buy his woman gift after gift—he's actually quite terrible at it but she made it a little easier for him—but this one came with a _lot_ of reasons to go ahead with, mainly the fact that he was leaving for work yet again and, also, he liked seeing her light up and if that included buying her shoes, so be it.

Like any man with a pulse, he could appreciate beauty. And yes, her legs were beautiful but add those shoes? He is, simply put, a goner. So while he liked seeing her light up at a pair of $800 shoes, he knows his motives were somewhat selfish as well, considering the pleasure he gets from staring at them while she wore them.

Plus, the anniversary—the day they met—they were pretending not to notice or care about had passed the day prior and they'd went out on a date but that was it. He felt like a heel—no pun intended—for not getting her anything even though she had requested things be that way. She didn't like being high maintenance even though she _appeared_ that way and wasn't too overly eager to appear as the 'frilly' (her word, not his) type.

So, add that particular anniversary-that-isn't and the part where he had to leave for work again, even if it was just an hour's flight away, compelled him to do something.

The something turned into the gray high heels and the gray high heels turned into a very appreciative lover and a playful accusation that he spoiled her. And that he might have a weird fetish for shoes—he doesn't! She just has gorgeous legs, among other things so what's a man to do? He really is _just_ a man.

But back to the shoes, the ones in his line of view.

Usually she treated her shoes a little more better than the way she did her other things. Shoes were one of her favorite things and those were tucked away in pretty racks in her enlarged walk-in closet where their respective dogs are not allowed in _ever_. Each piece has a rightful place, organized and nothing is random—and she remembers where every single pair goes, thank you very much.

So to find the current 'black classic favorites' tossed aside as if the owner had merely kicked them off and left them there? Odd. Out of character. Curiouser and curiouser.

More curious though not yet worried—they _are_ shoes—he eyes the bag and clothes. Black-maybe-brown dress to match the shoes, very her, very feminine and he was almost sure without having to touch the material that it would be luxuriously soft _and_ tempting. He felt a little disappointed not having seen her in it. That one looked as if it had been taken off and thrown aside haphazardly, which was yet again another anomaly since there was a very useful and therefore often used wicker hamper basket in the bathroom where the dress would have gone on a normal night.

He was beginning to feel like the Bears and wondered if perhaps Goldilocks had managed to beat his lover into the house. The bag was on the floor and that was the last clue he needed to accept that somehow, something was incredibly wrong because there was _no way_ those _expensive as hell_ dolled up sacks the fashion world _dared_ to call bags would _ever_ end up on the floor, carpet or no carpet.

Putting his own bags down (the normal kind that actually looks like a bag, thank you) and looking around, he finally decided that it was time to find either Goldilocks or his lover. He could easily say he can find the two in one person, but he could care less. The clothes, shoes and bag were neon-signs telling him he had _definitely_ missed something while was away, as long as he found whoever was wearing and carrying the things he stumbled upon, fine.

He put it together in his mind, basing everything on the evidence he had come across. He was a forensic scientist so this should be easy though this was a in a different medium.

If the owner of the things listed somehow had to go somewhere _other_ than the bedroom and the bathroom—her sanctuary for long days that initially felt endless, he knew—where _else_ would she go in her home? He was pretty sure she was in the house but where?

Scattered clothes, kicked shoes and bag on the floor…of course.

He nodded slowly, running a hand through his hair before mentally smacking himself for not figuring it out faster. Of course she could be in one place. The things left behind were not really just clues, more like _symptoms_. Of what? He wasn't sure but he'd spoken with her twice in the week and he'd heard the tightness and rigidity in her voice that told him there were things happening she hadn't informed him of yet. Those things were usually work related and seeing the reaction to what was happening via her beloved things, he could guess it was big.

And that meant there was only one place in the house she could be. If she wasn't there, then he would guess she would either be at work or somewhere with her partner, commiserating or venting or both. They were creatures of habit, those two, and tended to get predictable. Not that he was going to complain.

Going back down the stairs, he moved further down the hall and moved towards a set of double doors. There was no laughter to be heard, no voices speaking. She was alone, that much he could surmise.

He slid them open, revealing the den that was well stocked with a bar that could rival _Studio 54_ in it's heyday. The lights were dimmed, the fireplace was alive and in front of it was the plush leather couch and there was a familiar head of dark blonde hair that was most definitely not Goldilocks'. He approached, rounding the couch carefully before taking a seat next to her, gauging her mood as he glanced between the cackling fire and her face.

No outright signs of anguish, she merely stared as she balanced a tumbler of what he assumed was bourbon on her bare thigh. She was wearing one of his shirts, the longer plaid ones she hated on him but loved to steal. The red ones, the ones she giggled at and said made her feel like a lumberjack, were the evidence of her felony tonight. He didn't much care—she looked a hell of a lot better in his clothes than he ever could anyway.

She looked sedate, not necessarily depressed. She just _stared_.

"Hi," he said after observing her, trying not to glance at her legs and the way she had them stretched out in front of her and on to the coffee table in front, bare feet crossed at the ankles most likely kept warm by the fire. "I'm home."

A beat.

"Diane?" he leaned forward, shifting just a little closer to her and placed his hand on her leg, rubbing gently. "You okay?"

Another beat and then a dull voice answered, "I work with children."

"O-kay," he nodded, taking off his own coat and laid it on the table next to her feet before shifting again into a more comfortable position next to her, sitting sideways so he could put his arm on the top of the couch and let his fingers settle into her hair. He felt her head shift slightly and he took that as his cue, running his fingers along her scalp and watched as she visibly relaxed with a silent sigh.

"When I turned fifty," she began after a long pause, her head tilted towards his direction though she'd yet to look at him, "I did not feel quite as compelled to drink myself into oblivion then as I do right now."

He nodded, slowly, "So…the children are driving you to drink." He's not about to ask _what children_ because they both know she's not drunk enough to hallucinate. She'll explain, in her own terms, and he would listen because that's how it is. He's a patient man and she's not as hard to understand as some women. She can talk without the riddles if she wants to and he appreciates that.

"Yes," she nodded, slowly then brought her glass to her lips, draining it completely before handing it to him. "Stop me before I actually get drunk, drive off and throttle someone with a bottle of Evan Williams I'm tempted to drink straight from the bottle."

"That bad," he murmured, placing the tumbler next to his coat and returned to his original position.

"Mhm," she nodded, blinking slowly when his fingers went back to work on the crown of her head, "Forty-four million dollars and we were up on the hook, all of us, one-point-two apiece. Of course, you can imagine how _that_ went with the partners."

"Bedlam," he didn't have to ask if the case was won or if they ended up paying. Forty-four million was big, even for a thriving law firm like theirs. If they hadn't won then he was sure he would have found her doing more than just drinking and staring into the fire. Forty-four cold million was not to be trifled with. That, and something like this would have made headlines for him to read.

"Yep," she mumbled, "And, of course, since being sued for forty-four million isn't enough, the _children_ decide to air out their grievances at that moment too. This was a divorce case and to make a long story short, Julius took a shot at the unrepentant David whom everyone assumed screwed up because he's David then David went after Julius because Julius might have the one who actually screwed up after all…like a goddamned merry-go-round from hell."

He nodded, "Screaming matches, eh?"

"Yep, with lots of colorful words thrown in," she said sarcastically, her voice dripping with acid and he didn't have to have it spelled out for him just how involved she had gotten in this dispute between the _other_ men in her life.

"David threw them first," he guessed. That man's default was sarcasm, he knew that much simply from barely a handful of conversations with the eccentric character. He could only guess what words David Lee had for the likes of him, not that he cared.

"He and Julius were never quite…simpatico," she mused, "Then, _of course_, Eli picks this moment to play _get to know you_ with David." She rolled her eyes, "You can imagine how well that went."

Yet another man who's default was sarcasm though he could imagine Eli Gold's brand was a little more laced with arsenic than David Lee's. But then again, the latter was quite adept at being obnoxious to no end so he couldn't quite really imagine how that would _end_. It would go, of course, it will, but how it would end? He wasn't too sure. Both men had the kind of temperament that could drive a nun to curse and the Pope to condone murder in a heartbeat.

"Eli didn't want to pay one-point-two, Julius and David were pointing at each other with knives and…there's Will," she blinked slowly.

"Will giving you a hard time again?" he frowned. Things had been going well with the two lately, he couldn't imagine what could change between them when they'd just managed to get through the worst moments in both their friendship and partnership during the Bond fiasco.

"No, no," she shook her head, "He's got his own set of things to deal with, but you know, it affects me as well and I am doing what I can to help him. We're actually in a good place."

"But David, Julius and Eli—"

"Are the main reason why I am entertaining alcoholism," she grumbled. "Going at each other, ripping into whatever they can reach…good god, they _are_ children. Eli pouts like one. David plays dress up. Julius just proved that if pushed, he can throw a right hook if provoked enough."

"He hit David Lee?" his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"No," she shook her head, "I won't have that. But it was close. Pugilists in my own firm. Unbelievable."

"If it was David he was handling, I'm not surprised."

"Yes, well," she shrugged, "I want to get incredibly blind drunk right now."

"Don't," he shook his head, moving just a pinch closer and nudged her so she would move as well, leaning forward a little to give his hand access to her back. He pulled her towards him, ignoring her mumbled protest before letting her settle against his shoulder. "I can shoot them for you, if you want…make it look like an accident. I can do that easy."

"Good god, no," she moaned, turning her head onto his shoulder and pressed her forehead against his shirt, breathing in deeply. "Can you imagine the…bitching and moaning? I can and it would be a nightmare. David. Eli. Or heaven forbid, both of them." She shook her head, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater, "It won't take me more than twenty-four hours before I start begging _you_ to shoot _me_."

"Remind me again why you work with these people…" he asked, grinning while he let his hand drift to her back, pulling her to him in a hug, resting his chin on the top of her head and inhaled the familiar scent of Magnolias. And then he realized why he hadn't found her in the bathroom—she'd been there already.

"David brings in the money," she muttered, "And he's not entirely bad…there's someone else underneath that facade and yes, I do like him. He's just…he doesn't play well with others."

"And Eli Gold?" he raised his eyebrow even if she couldn't see him. David Lee he could understand, Eli was a different matter. He'd heard of the man.

"He's Eli," she sighed, turning her head again and laid her cheek in the spot where her forehead had been, "He has problems sharing. And making friends. He's like that kid in class, you know the one? Can't share, can't make friends easily, hostile…"

"I don't like the word hostile there," he confessed. "You're not doing a good job of dissuading me from shooting him."

She chuckled, "My hero…but no. Eli is Eli. He brings in money, he does his thing and this is temporary." She breathed in, "He's just waiting for the next round of elections _then_ he'll go. Most likely it will be Peter he'll tote around and push for a win."

"He's good at that," he muttered, "Florrick might just win."

"We'll see," she sighed, "These men are so good at what they do, including Julius, but they are _children_…oh, my god, grown _men_ fighting each other, nearly coming to blows…I don't need children."

He chuckled, "Well, you won't let me shoot them, you won't fire them and you can't exactly ground them."

"But I can put them in their place," she sighed, "And I did. But I still want to drink myself into oblivion. And that's your fault, by the way."

"How is that my fault?" he asked as she got up, obnoxiously purposely pushing him while she moved and sat up, facing him with narrowed eyes.

"I do not drink alone," she declared, "I do not go home and _get drunk_. It's not my style. But here you are. And here I am." She let out a puff of breath, "I only thought about getting drunk because I knew you were coming home."

"Greeting me with alcoholism," he nodded slowly, patting her on the thigh and enjoying the feel of her skin against his, "I feel the genuine affection there."

"Sarcasm," she pointed out, shaking a finger in his face, "That will cost you."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't _uh-huh_ me," she growled, "I blame you. I would not get drunk alone. That is pathetic. But you're here so I felt safe enough to do so."

He shrugged, "If you're an alcoholic, okay, I won't judge. I like you the way you are."

"Nice, did Hallmark help you with that?" she said sarcastically before shaking her head, dropping it into one hand then hummed, "Oh…men can be such children. So brilliant, yet so…_stupid_." She frowned, "And they almost cost me forty-four million."

"Well, if you fixed it…no harm, no foul."

"Not quite," she said before looking at him again then tilted her head sideways and stared at him for a moment, "Have I…"

"Have you…?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, "Welcomed you home?"

"Not really," he said simply.

"Oh," she leaned forward and kissed him and he tasted the bourbon on her lips, the familiarity of the flavor enough to compel him to pull her closer to deepen her welcoming of him. She was all too willing to lean in, her hands running through his hair, nails raking along his scalp. He almost balked at that, suppressing a shiver that came unbidden and felt her smile against his lips. By the time she pulled back, they were in need of air and she was smiling, "Hello."

"Hi," he grinned, "Still feel like getting drunk off your ass?"

"No," she smiled, kissing him quickly once more, "Welcome back."

"Thanks," he grinned, "Now, no more work talk…let's do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't care," he said simply, pulling her up along with him as he stood up. He pulled her in for another kiss before leading her out of the den, her feet and legs bare though they didn't care. They reached the hallway, smiling to each other before rounding towards the staircase, every intent in mind centered on her bedroom where her clothes, shoes and bag were still laid out. He only hoped she didn't bother with those until they were done saying hello.

He passed, managing an absent glance at the table at the head of the hallway, catching sight of something colorful then stopped, tilting his head sideways and read what was written on it.

"Harry Borgman," he read aloud, his hands still encased in hers, "Isn't that the exhibit we were talking about going to? The one that we cancelled…?"

A beat, but then her response didn't follow so he decided to look at her, catching sight of something flickering across her features before she schooled her face into that of neutrality. But he'd seen it already so he was curious once again.

"Uh, yes, I went…" she began, motioning towards the poster randomly, "It was interesting. Abstract and such, as you can see."

"Oh," he nodded, "Looks good."

"I know you prefer impressionism and landscapes," she shrugged, "But it was interesting."

"Okay," he nodded, smiling at her then began to move in for another kiss, only to have her stepping away from him with an uncertain look on her face.

"Actually…" she stopped, her hand rising a little to put in between them. She was a step higher than him on the stairs, leaving him on the landing with a stupid grin on his face, "I…got served while I was there."

"While you were at the gallery?" he raised his eyebrows.

"Mhm," she nodded, "And…"

"And…" he echoed though he was slower, dragging out the word as he rolled it around his tongue. His hands that were resting on her waist curled just a little tighter and grabbed hold, most likely wrinkling his own shirt but he didn't care. Instead, he teased along the edges of the buttons with his mouth, grinning up at her before pressing an aimless kiss wherever his lips could land on her torso.

She stopped, giving him that uncertain smile that made him just a little bit worried but he waited her out, pulling back from her body reluctantly with the stupid grin never leaving his face. "And, well, there was this man named Jack. He's an Australian, actually…"

"Okay, Jack from the Outback," he grinned ever stupider at childish play of words, only looking up at her once more when she didn't even humor him enough to laugh or chuckle. He stopped, feeling just a little worried then and wondered if there was something else she hadn't told him. "Diane?"

"Well…" she began, shifting a little on her bare feet. What was this? This woman was _not_ capable of fidgeting and yet from where he was standing, that was exactly how her actions appeared to him. She _knew_ how to fidget? He was beginning to feel confused. "We saw each other a few times and well, Jack was…he's…"

One more shift of her feet then suddenly the rest of the story came out and he was introduced to Jack Copeland, an Australian who was a Process Server who _also_ happened to appreciate art in various forms. Nothing happened, just flirting and she saw him slam a man against a wall—and he's not even thinking about the guilty look that flickered over her mien before she skipped to the rest—and also bought her the Harry Borgman poster.

Oh, and not to mention the fact that he _also_ helped her with the forty-four million dollar lawsuit, the ultimate bomb they slipped into their arsenal that obliterated the threat that had been so eagerly aimed at them. Jack Copeland, a good guy, an interesting man who might just be a new friend.

A friend, nothing more, but he saw something in her eyes. Could it be guilt? He's never seen her truly guilty before but what could he do? Nothing happened, she said, and he believed her. There was trust between them and she was nothing if not honorable and loyal, almost to a fault.

He could pull a stupid caveman act, ruin their night and forget the rest of his welcome home. And if he pushed it, he might also be welcoming himself into a hotel room if it came to it. If he was an idiot or chose to be one, that is.

Was he was bothered? Of course he was, but he wasn't _too_ bothered. Nothing happened except a bit of flirting and some badly delivered words that almost sounded like pick-up lines. Ah, hell.

Unsure of what to do, he shook his head wordlessly and decided then what he wanted to do and that was to kiss her all over. He would start on her lips, forget what seemed like the beginnings of an apology coming his way because, really, what was there to apologize for? He didn't want to think about that.

He kissed her until she lost her breath, until she needed air. Jack-what's-his-name can flirt and buy her posters until the end of time, but he's the one she's kissing, it's his shirt she's stealing and it's him that's in her house, in her bed. He kissed her because that's really all they needed. That's all that mattered.

Like everything in her life, he'll put Jack from the Outback right where he belongs, which is out of her mind and nowhere else. She can see him, if she wants, but that's it. He's the man kissing her.

And as long as they never met or, at least, didn't meet under the wrong circumstances, he's fine.

Well, at least that's what he tells himself while he's taking her breath away over and over again at the foot of the stairs, ignoring the feeling that was coming over him.

Because all over again, he was remembering just _how_ it felt like to want to shoot a man.

Not that it meant he was jealous or anything, no. He was well above that. Or so he'd like to think so. He pushed that out of his mind too and kissed her a little more, his hand slipping into her hair and tangled his fingers there. He held on even when her nails began to dig into the skin of his neck. He's not jealous.

There's just something about kissing her, over and over again. There was something about stealing her breath away only to have her come back to him for more. _If_ he was ever jealous, her reaction to him is exactly what he needs to stop that particular feeling. How could he doubt her when she's returning his affections just as strongly, holding on to him as if she really didn't want to let go again?

He's not jealous, but if he _was_ then he's not anymore, not when she's kissing him like that.

Because, after all, he's really just a man.

And he was all hers.


End file.
